ATL

my south speak got beat out by travel
hiding out in fielded corn crop

but i can still learn how to lie honestly
from civil war memorials

or battlefields or working in the sun
where your entire body hardens in bake

but my poet hands or boy touch
wont bruise any leg and elsewhere

and know the rain hasn't stopped falling
since the last time i saw you

my drawling walk and slow eyes
touching my fingers to your sleeping fingers

wanting to see you every morning
with your hair down and nothing else